Adam is dreaming of a bomb atom become A-bomb so many atoms in this @
Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind
Shark Fin
Like a black wing angled out
of water, it rose, lured
by the shadow of our boat.
Circled us—no seal—turned
north. I loved a banker then.
The boat was his. Perhaps
the water, too, its small, tin
mirrors. I’d never known the traps
of wealth before: the rigging
of its baits, its blue-barbed hooks.
I, too, have circled, mistaking
metal for a meal, duped
by instinct. Wide, the sea. The oar:
the heart’s dark sail, its hunger.
Pond
Interlocking plains of constitutions, verdant, mortal, birth
a send-up of absurd proportions skimming the margins
of oblivion, death-rate in its wake illuminating the awe-
struck mind fresh from the ripeness of non-existence, or is it
simply there?, alive, awake as cardinals climb into their hot
chambers of insistence to clash in vocables over the shining
stage for contention of place like a glistening word on nature’s
page, diamond lost in a world of diamonds as light strikes
water, shining upward from where I sit before its levitation,
the dilation of what is within that which was thought to have
been all along, as an advancing edge, ever-changing nature
of question, today the northeast corner lost in a warren of green,
a hut bound to water-roots hanging blindly down into pond’s
warm stillness, feather soft in mind and touch, yet immense,
heavy as a drowned heifer, my shoulders sore from dragging mats
to shore, wrestling bio-mass from the heart of that which pours
so fully forth and into all the world, both existence and its un-
doing, as I climb the banks of this bright hole whose glassy
presence, sheer, upcast, encases cicada’s scroll in silver
light, song within the song, It is the mind creates the finite.